Confrontational Lust
by Trying To Try My Best
Summary: America loved guns. But that doesn't mean the feeling of a knife in his grip didn't make his hunger spike. A weapon is a weapon, after all.


In terms of weaponry, guns were ideal for most. Long range to minimize the amount of damage able to befall the shooter and a certain detachment was always given to the act itself. For some reason, shooting something lacked the amount of intimacy that stabbings or beatings held within their crimes. Guns were ideal weapons for someone that wanted as little of a mess as possible. Guns were ideal for one who wanted to remove themselves from the scene in every way, hoping that the lack of closeness the gun sweetly promised meant that they can shoot and forget. Guns were ideal for a quick, and almost always, a struggle-free fight.

In America, guns were very popular. They were very popular and has been so since America was just Colonies. In the law of the land, written in 1787, there's even a rule that states that all citizens have the right to bear arms. To be in charge of whatever weaponry they choose without any hassle from uniforms of any kind. Within certain limits and rules, of course. One can not be seen with a rocket launcher without a warrant or official document of the state they reside in stating that they have got that weapon with some kind of consent of a legal authority. Even in the state of Florida can mass weapons seen during the dark times of war be used on private land with no concern to others. All these things, these allowances seen in the United States of America with limitations of ownership and the like, leave it laughably easy to obtain firearms. To accept firearms. After so long, so terribly long, of seeing that dull metal glint at the corner of the eye, hearing that pop that came with a playful trigger, and holding the weight of such fine machinery lovingly within callused hands, it became apart of culture. Apart of the American life and way.

But that didn't mean there wasn't alternative ways of taking someone down.

Alfred caressed the pocket knife lovingly. Beautiful blue grip, his favor color, dark black steel winking back at him in the light, custom made, and a faded orange design added just for viewing pleasure. It was beautiful, it was dangerous, it was _Alfred's._

For some reason that made it all the more enticing.

The feeling of a gun against the skin, cocked and loaded to kill, was toxic but the cool touch of a pocket knife was just _orgasmic_.

He wasn't a freak or anything. This wasn't sexual attractions to feel a gun pointed at him or to have the blade gently pressing into tanned American flesh as a warning. No, it was so much more than that. Alfred was attracted to the power. The protection in a fight, the knowledge that he had an upper hand in both strength and attachments was what got his blood pumping. Not many knew of this obsession he had to weapons. Not Arthur, not Mattie, not Francis. No one but those his slipped up on. Not that many of them can share their findings, Alfred made sure of that. He wasn't ashamed of his attraction but he wasn't stupid enough to think it would be accepted and his tools of violence would be safe.

Idly, skilled fingers twisted and played with the pocket knife, the less than casual and harmless uses for the tool going unnoticed in the meeting room. Knives were nice. They were everywhere, practical, in plain sight with no panic from the people. But guns... they had a shock value. Alfred shifted his weight to remind himself of that pressure against his thigh of his favorite glock strapped up and hidden under his baggy pants. (The uniforms required for him to wear on work days got in the way so, simple solution really, he got rid of them. The new ones allowed more room for his babbies.) Shock value was good. Good for the assault. Good for seeing the looking on people's faces when they realized that they lost, that they can't make it out alive no matter how much they fight and _beg-_

Out the corner of his eye, Alfred watched as the representative of Russia shifted in place as well and firmly gazed at America. Boldly not dropping eye contact despite the hungry look Alfed was sure consumed the happy go lucky shine that usually made home in his eyes. Others might dismiss it. But not Russia. Especially not Russia. Russia always have known about this... problem of Alfred's. Whenever he would get like this, Ivan was who he hunted. Firstly because he was strong so the fight would last longer (he loved a struggle). And secondly, the man was always packing heat. Always. How could America believe otherwise when he saw the sutble tap to the waist in warning?

Feeling a rush start to come on, Alfred placed his hand in his pocket and gently rubbed his thumb along the grip of his pocket knife. America may have loved guns. But it would be a damn lie to say he didn't shiver in pleasure to think of his knife in a gun fight. He can already tell that the wounds he'd gather from this run in would leave him with a little more than slight arousal when recuperating.

 **I wrote a thingy. I don't know what it's about really, I just kinda tired of no America obsessed with weapons or violence when I was searching and after like, I don't know, maybe three days?, of looking I decided to just make my own. I'm hazed enough for it at 1:52 in the morning and I like the topic enough to ramble enough for a short drabble. The shift makes me feel awkward. They always do, tbh. I don't like moving focus but I wanted to press the arousal part. Night.**


End file.
